Common
by Philadelphia Tuesday
Summary: Martha and Clark talk about the Luthors, almost. Post-''Suspect.''


Author's Note: I don't own the characters, nor do I own the song "It's Common (But We Don't Talk About It)" by Bratmobile.

* * *

_if you feel something  
don't let it show  
there's nothing to say  
and there's nothing to know_

Silence can be as cold as torture, as overwhelming as an ocean current, as welcome as drowning.

She remembers icy mornings, staring at her father across the table as he read the newspaper, affecting obliviousness. Clark is related to the man in name only, but she recognizes the same suspicious disdain contained in his stare, directed at every other object in the kitchen but her. How could they be so similar, linked by nothing? Clearly, they are linked by something--by the same person, who learned the strategy from one and passed it down to the other. 

She almost wants to apologize for that, if nothing else.

"So Dad went to bed early?"

The right side of her mouth quirks up. "Can you blame him?"

That's a loaded question, he doesn't say. He knows what she means: he's spent the night in a jail cell before, too. But he can't help thinking about the other thing, wondering if it's more than a sore back that sent his father to sleep before dinner.

He decides not to respond at all. He wants to tell her he isn't freezing her out on purpose, he just doesn't know what to say. He's afraid of saying too much, and saying it all wrong. So he keeps quiet, stares at his plate, pretends to be interested in anything but continuing the conversation. 

He wants to ask: What's going to happen now? Is there a secret you've been keeping? Can I blame you for keeping it from me, when I have my own to protect? How far has it gone? How far have you let it go? You're still who I think you are, aren't you? Or was I wrong about you all along? 

He doesn't ask any of those questions, for fear that she'll turn them on him instead. It might be a discussion they should have at some point, but not tonight; some other night when he's got his own answers ready, just in case.

"I'm just glad the whole thing is over," she says, taking obscure comfort in the sound of her own voice.

Is it over? He keeps his mouth shut and nods in agreement.

She sighs. "Well, not all of it is over, I guess. I just mean I'm glad to have him home."

Are you? He nods again. That was a terrible thing to say. I didn't mean it. Of course you are. You love him. I love you. I trust you. Don't I?

"Is there something wrong?"

He raises his eyebrows, feigns surprise. "No, nothing." But he can't resist pushing it further: "Why?"

"You're just quiet, that's all. I thought there might be a reason." 

"No," he repeats innocently.

A few moments pass before she gets to the point. "You must have some questions about the--"

"No."

"Well, I want to make it clear--" She pauses. What does she want to clarify? The truth? No. The lie? He's heard that part already. "There's nothing to worry about."

"No, I know."

She wants to reach over, shake him by the shoulders. Instead she stands up, takes her plate to the sink, rinses it off. 

He goes in for the kill, another trait he could have inherited from his grandfather but didn't. "I trust you."

Her hands aren't as steady as they should be. He'll notice; he'll understand why. She drops the plate and turns around, leans against the counter, grateful for the distance she's put between them when she says carefully: "Are you sure there isn't anything you'd like to talk about?"

"No, Mom. I swear, everything's cool."

"Oh, I know. I didn't mean that. You heard what I told Ethan about the watch and Lionel and everything. I was talking more about" Another pause. "Um, you were in the loft for a long time, weren't you?" She keeps her tone light. "With Lex?" 

Should she lay her cards on the table, and say: I thought you might have something to say about what you think I might have done, which I haven't, but I could have and you know it. You know how hard it can be to say no when you should but you don't want to. You think your father hasn't noticed, and you're right. He would never even consider the possibility. You would never betray him like that. Neither would I. 

No. She'll play it safer than that. She'll let him draw his own conclusions.

"I guess," he replies slowly, finally fixing his gaze on her. "Why?" 

"I just think you should be careful." 

He decides to claim innocence. "Me? Of what?" 

He picks up his own plate, drops it in the sink on top of hers, and then they're standing there together, practically toe to toe. As usual, he towers over her, but for the first time she almost feels threatened by the difference.

She takes a long time before answering. "Clark, there are people out there who will take the opportunity to exploit you even if they don't know about your abilities." A pause. "Do you understand what I'm talking about?"

"Yes. But there's nothing to worry about."

"No, I know," she assures him, placing a hand on his chest to feel his pulse quicken while she hesitates. "I trust you." 

He is aware that a bargain has been made.

She smiles at him like there's nothing wrong, and maybe there isn't, now that they've agreed to her terms. They're both getting something out of this deal, but he can't help but feel at a disadvantage. She knows the meaning behind everything he hasn't said, but he doesn't believe he'll ever be able to interpret her silences again.

Later she stares at her hands in the dark, with Jonathan's heavy arm wrapped around her, pinning her protectively to the bed. She had articulated a suspicion that turned out to be accurate. Now what? Maybe they could all move into the mansion together and be one big happy family. Well, except for Jonathan, but he'd probably do all right if Lionel agreed to pay his tab at the Wild Coyote. She almost laughs; it's almost funny. The only thing she can be sure about is that right now, tonight, nothing has to change. She can lie here and pretend nothing is different about her, about Clark, about what he knows, or what she does. She burrows in beside her husband, looking for the last remnants of warmth. These nights are numbered.


End file.
